A Certain Cure
by Jessi D
Summary: England goes to look for his older brother on a battlefield. The world has changed since 1914.


_Today I found in Mametz Wood_

_A certain cure for lust of blood._

- Robert Graves

* * *

**13****th**** July, 1916**

Arthur knew that the photograph was propaganda, they all knew. It was just the same as those posters of Kitchener or anything else that the War Office churned out, a call to arms to all the citizens of the United Kingdom and the British Empire. Captain Arthur Kirkland, Captain Dara Fitzgerald, Captain Alistair McMillan and Captain Gwydion ap Bledri. England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, the four nations of the British Isles standing together, full dress uniform, united together in the defence of King and Country.

They all looked so strong and proud so different to how England felt now. 1914 seemed centuries ago, a strange, bright past, still suffused with optimism. Yet in reality they'd been fighting for less than two years, two bloody and senseless years.

And it had only gotten worse. From the front line in the Somme news of the thousands and thousands of casualties were brought to Field Marshal's office where Captain Arthur Kirkland stood to attention, waiting for his orders, staring at the photograph of him and his older brothers.

His thoughts were taken up with Matthew and Francis, wondering where they were at the moment, when the door swung open and Major-General Watts walked in. England knew him; the man had been given command of the 38th Welsh Division several days ago. If he was here for orders then Gwydion should be with him.

But there was no sign of the dark-haired Welshman and Arthur saluted mechanically, his bushy brows furrowed in confusion.

"Objective complete," said the Major-General grinning widely, "Not a single German's left in Mametz, sir."

"Capital!" exclaimed Haig, "I was right to give the command to you Major-General. Distinct lack of push from the Welsh Division beforehand I thought but you seemed to have sorted them out admirably."

"We have sustained heavy casualties, sir. I'm afraid that they won't see action for some time yet."

"Where's Wales?" blurted England. His citizens, and technically his superior officers, turned to him with blank looks and the blond nation barely suppressed a growl of frustration, "Where's Captain ap Bledri?" he jabbed a finger towards the picture on Haig's wall.

"We have many soldiers missing in action, Captain. And our reinforcements cannot be spared to-"

"So you've just left him there? You haven't even looked?" England's hand dipped dangerously close to his revolver and he had to physically tear himself away.

"Captain Kirkland," the Field Marshal had a steely edge to his voice, "I gave the command of the 38th Welsh Division to Major-General Watts. It is his to use as he sees fit."

"And what he sees fit is to abandon my brother on the battlefield? A part of the United Kingdom?"

Haig shrugged,

"We have no trouble from the Welsh back in Blighty. Now if it were Ireland that were missing then I'd be worried about trouble from the nationalists among us-"

Arthur didn't hear the rest. He was darting out of the office, charging down the corridor, already planning how to get to Mametz Woods.

* * *

England wished he could have brought one of the others with him, but Ireland, Scotland and Canada were all somewhere in the trenches and France was at Verdun. As it was he had to pull rank to get three privates to help him.

The three of them had picked their way through the trenches and the craters left by shells, through the shattered trees and dense undergrowth. They examined every body to no avail and Arthur's anxiety was only increasing. He knew that they were different to humans. He knew that as long as Wales existed then Gwydion should be alright, but this war… This war was different. What if the old rules didn't apply?

"Captain ap Bledri!" the Englishman channelled his worry into calling for his lost sibling, "Ap Bledri! Gwydion!"

One of the privates was shifting fallen Welsh soldiers from a small pile in front of a German machine gun post. The boy screamed as something he took to be dead suddenly gasped for breath as he pulled a corpse off it. Arthur was there in a second, seeing nothing but mud at first, but then spotting that green eye, the exact shade of his own,

"Gwydion!"

"Lloegr," a white grin appeared against the dark mud. It did not reach the eyes, "Dydd da."

* * *

In the photograph Gwydion had been clean and in an expertly pressed uniform. His hair had been tidied up somewhat but still lay in thick curls under the regimental cap emblazoned with the Welsh dragon. His eyes were glittering and his mouth had been set into a slight, confident smile.

Being lead from Mametz Wood and leaning heavily on his younger brother, Wales was far from the calm, self-assured nation he'd been presented as back then. He was coated in mud from head to toe, his other eye had been sealed shut with the stuff and England had cleaned that area as best he could with a handkerchief and water bottle. He'd lost his service revolver and his rifle. And every time that there was the thunder of distant artillery and moving vehicles the dark-haired nation twitched and shuddered.

England had seen this before. They called it shell shock. He could only imagine being trapped beneath the corpses of his own citizens listening to the roar of machine guns and shells.

"Sut wyt Alistair a Dara?"

Arthur wasn't bothered or inclined to force Gwydion to speak English at this moment,

"I've not heard."

The Welshman bit his lip, green eyes taking in the devastation,

"Sawl?"

Arthur knew this. He'd snagged a copy of Major-General Watts' estimates,

"They think it's over four thousand, Gwydion."

The dark-haired nation stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide and bright against his muddied skin,

"Amhosibl!"

Four thousand men in five days. But England had seen worse, knew that many more had died and would die yet. Knowing that, he gently tugged Wales forward into motion once more.

"Mae Cymru wedi curo yr Almaen?"

"You've pushed them back, sent them packing."

"Pa les mae e'n 'i wneud?"

"You can't think like that, Gwydion."

They walked together in silence, back through the mud and the great craters and they felt the deaths of every soldier, here in Mametz and in the trenches and No-man's Land and the field hospitals.

"Arthur, mae eisiau mynd adre."

"It'll be over soon. Come Christmas we'll be home again."

Neither country believed those words. Not any more.

* * *

**Translations**

**Lloegr** – England

**Dydd da** – Good day

**Sut wyt Alistair a Dara?** – How are Alistair and Dara?

**Sawl?** – How many?

**Amhosibl!** – Impossible!

**Mae Cymru wedi curo yr Almaen?** – Wales has beaten Germany?

**Pa les mae e'n 'i wneud?** – What good is it?

**Arthur, mae eisiau mynd adre** – Arthur, I want to go home

* * *

**Historical Notes**

The battle of Mametz Woods was part of the battle of the Somme in the First World War. The 38th (Welsh) Division had to take Mametz Woods which was strongly defended by the German army with machine gun posts. The 115th brigade made the first attack on 7th July but they were unsuccessful and suffered many casualties. Field Marshal Haig thought there was a distinct lack of 'push' from the Welsh soldiers and transferred command from Major-General Ivor Philipps to Major-General Watts to use 'as he saw fit'. By the time the division was relieved on the 12th July the enemy had completely withdrawn from the wood. However, the division had lost so many men that it would not see further action until over a year later.

In 1987 a memorial was raised on the battleground to remember their sacrifice. It takes the form of a Welsh Dragon tearing at barbed wire on a plinth three metres high.

* * *

**Jessi:** I seem to be only writing distressing Hetalia fan fiction. Then again there is a distinct lack of cheerful Welsh history. Please leave me any suggestions and criticisms you may have.


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